


The Perfect Metaphor

by firearms57



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Crack, this happened, well.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firearms57/pseuds/firearms57
Summary: Rhys gets drunk, and Cassian provokes him. (sorta crackfic)





	The Perfect Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> This is from a while ago and I kinda love it still so I thought I'd share it with y'all.

There were different kinds of drunk, Feyre mused. There were the matchmakers, like Mor, who, after a few cups of wine, made it their personal goal to acquire you a shiny new boyfriend. The restrictions on who exactly this person was were loose, to be frank. In Feyre’s experience, she did not even have to know them. Hell, they usually weren’t sober and could barely stand upright without Mor’s surprisingly steady shoulder to lean on. Once, Mor had tried to convince her to take a skeleton to dinner, Rhys pouting all the while.

Amren wasn’t much better. When she got drunk, she was terrifying. It was a bit how Feyre imagined she’d be if she got pregnant (Cauldron forbid it). Her expressionless face took a turn for the worse, either blown red in rage, or streaked with ugly tears. A volcano, that was how she was, pressure building, building, from the slightest provocation, and then exploding furiously and suddenly. Amren didn’t exactly shoot molten rock out of her head, but the things that flew from her mouth certainly burned.

Azriel was the best out of them all. Feyre had only seen him tipsy once, never full-out drunk. He could hold alcohol better than Cassian, surprising since the General was considerably more free with how much he drank and just how frequently. The single time Az took one too many shots, she hadn’t gotten to witness the extent of his stupor. He’d disappeared. Vanished. Five hours later, he was back, come just as quietly as he’d left. During a particularly humorous exchange, Feyre’s laughter ceased abruptly, glancing at the shadowsinger who had been engaged in the conversation for quite some time. She couldn’t remember him entering the room, and she was left wondering when exactly he’d sneaked in. Cassian suggested that Azriel left because he had something to hide. Perhaps he was one of those people who gushed and preened. None believed it.

While Cassian’s tongue was loose enough already when he was sober, it positively lolled out of his mouth when he was drunk. His eyes turned droopy, his smile dopey, while he complimented as many females as he could. It became a sort of game between them, to guess just how many women would slap him before he collapsed. The sight of the war-hardened general, one of the High Lord’s closest friends, sprawled across three chairs with red hand-prints crisscrossing his face was strange enough to make heads turn, to emit gasps. The inner circle, for their part, fell apart just as effectively as Cassian, albeit from laughter.

Feyre did not know how she was when she was drunk, as she could not remember it. However, enough eyebrows wagged suggestively that she had a pretty good idea of what happened. Rhys grinned, cat-like, when she asked him. He said “If you don’t remember a night like that, Darling, you’re not going to remember anything.” The images he sent were more than enough to fill her in.

Which brought her to Rhys. Her Mate was absolutely incorrigible after downing an entire bottle of brandy. And Cassian had spiked it, for Cauldron’s sake. Rhys, normally quite tolerant of other males, had reverted back to the state he was in just hours after the Mating Bond set in, and then some. He growled and snapped at any male that tried to talk to her, even walk past. His anger was enough that a wide, empty circle had formed around her, no matter how incovenient. The party continued on, nervously, participants tittering in safe huddles. The General was not helping one bit, taking personal pleasure in riling him up. She watched worriedly as the two Illyrians circled.

Cauldron, it looks like they’re about to spar!

Rhys was certainly ready, eyes wild, nearly panting with feral rage.

“Oh, Feeeeyre,” Cassian called, fluttering his eyelids and clasping his hands together. “Won’t you come and convince Rhys that threesomes are wonderful?”

Rhys snarled, tendrils of night fluttering dangerously.

“Mor, can’t we stop this?” Feyre whispered from the corner of her mouth. Mor, feet propped up on the table, hand secured firmly on Azriel’s side, popping chocolates with the other, shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m good.” Her gaze stayed glued to the spectacle in front of her, her arm tugging Azriel closer. He shifted uncomfortably.

A roar had Feyre whipping her head around. Rhys had launched himself at Cassian, where they tore at each other like wolves. Screams broke out amongst the common folk, those who could winnow pulling friends with them. The others pushed and shoved towards the door, deference forgotten. The inner circle did not budge, did not spare them a glance. Things like this were fairly commonplace by now. They weren’t in any real danger.

Cassian howled with laughter as blood poured down his face. They clubbed each other savagely, until Rhys came out on top. His wings were flared, foam at his mouth, and the darkness burst from him in waves. Mor nodded her head, mouth stuffed full with chocolate. “Good, good.”

Feyre spluttered. “You’re just going to watch this?”

“Mm-hmm.” Mor smacked her lips.

She turned to Azriel. “And you?”

He looked away guiltily.

“Oh! For Cauldron’s sake.” She stomped over to the two of them, both breathing heavily, sweat soaked through their dress shirts. Rhys’ nostrils flared and he turned his head. His eyes glazed and he roughly shoved Cassian away. “Feyre,” he said, voice deeper and more guttural than normal.

“Dammit, you need to—” The kiss was unexpected, sloppy and hungry. His mouth was hot, and his hands were going places that were not entirely appropriate. “Rhys,” she hissed, breaking away.

“What?” he hummed, peppering kisses down her neck. One of his hands strayed down to her ass and squeezed.

She shoved his hands away. “What the fuck, Rhys!”

He looked up and smiled lazily. “What? You don’t complain in bed.”

She opened her mouth and choked. Mor snorted, and Cassian was near bawling on the floor.

“Rhys, we’re in public,” Feyre tried again. Rhys only pulled her closer, a hard jut in his pants.

“So?”

“So, stop!” She broke away from him, flushed and wanting, but also flustered and embarrassed. As she did, various exclamations of horror and delight arose from their crowd. Her face heated as she realized why. All one had to do was glance down before certain things became obvious. Certain feelings that could be expressed in involuntary bodily reactions.

Mor winced, but a smirk still lined her face. “Never wanted to see that.”

“Woa-ho!” Cassian whooped. “Looks like someone’s up and at ‘em!”

“Well,” Az said quietly, “the cock has crowed, hasn’t it?”

Amren and Cassian guffawed. Mor let out a surprised laugh and gave him a payful slap. “Az!”

Cassian leaned over to whisper not-very-quietly in Amren’s ear, “Didn’t think he had it in him.”

Meanwhile, Feyre’s mortification only grew. It seemed Rhys’ shame had been piled on top of hers. “Well,” he began, stepping closer. “Where were we?”

Feyre fended him off, and he stumbled finally, leaning back heavily against the wall. “If you’d just step right this way—”

“Rhys, you can barely stand,” Feyre said heatedly. Screw embarrassed. That was in the trash can now. “How do you suppose we fuck?”

Again, whoops and hollers, mostly from Cassian.

“Well,” Rhys said. “It’s something like taking a crap outside. There’s a hole, and then you sit on the hole, and nothing happens for a while, and then you feel it coming, and when it does it’s like an explosion of stars behind your eyes as you release yourself and then the most blissful satisfaction.” He paused. “And then you want to sleep a lot.”

Silence as they all stared at him, mouths agape.

“What?”

“O-kay,” Feyre said. “Now I’m genuinely worried. Cassian, how much did you put in there?”

He held up his hands placatingly. “Not enough to do this. I swear.”

“Damn,” Mor said. “That was a good metaphor.”

Azriel frowned at her. “You didn’t have any of the brandy, did you?”

Mor smiled mysteriously.

Feyre’s attention was taken again by that wandering hand. “Well, Feyre,” Rhys whispered, eyes earnestly searching hers. His voice was serious as he said, “Will you take a crap on me?”

Feyre shook her head, eyes wide. “Fuck. I don’t think we’re going to be able to have sex for a long, long time.”


End file.
